The Good Knight (A Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mystery) (4 page)

Gareth turned Braith’s head, but his initial hesitation cost him his opportunity. Two men appeared around the turn in the road behind them, galloping towards the battle from the south, swords raised high. Forward or back, Gareth had no choice but to fight. He urged Braith into the seething mass of men. Using the advantage being mounted gave him, he swung his sword at the first enemy soldier he came upon. As it sliced through the man’s shoulder, Gareth tried to remain contained, breathing steadily to control the rush of energy that poured through him. It worked about as well as it usually did, which was to say, hardly at all. Instead, he felt as if he were flinging his sword about uncontrollably.

A second man attempted to waylay them and Gareth killed him with a sharp thrust to the throat. Gwen, meanwhile, clung to him, her arm clenched around his waist, while she slashed with her belt knife at any man who came at them from Braith’s other side. Again Gareth thrust his sword, this time at a man who was trying to catch Braith’s reins. Gareth killed two more men before he reached Madog, who, though heavily beset, was holding his own.

Gareth swung at an assailant’s head and then launched himself from Braith’s back, taking down a second attacker. Without pausing for breath, he pushed to one knee and shoved his sword through the man’s midsection. And with that, the flow of battle moved away from him and his senses began to work again.

He turned, looking for Gwen. She’d managed to gather Braith’s reins and stay on the horse’s back. Gwen’s breath came in gasps and her eyes were wide with fear, but like Braith, her head was up and she wasn’t screaming. Beyond, men and horses pushed back and forth at each other, some in such close combat that their swords weren’t doing the fighters any good. Despite the ferociousness of the attack, Owain Gwynedd’s men had been able to withstand the initial assault. Even the two horsemen who’d ridden into the fray from behind had gone down.

“They overestimated their ability to surprise us,” Gareth said. “And we had the greater numbers.”

Madog grunted and moved towards the thick of the fight, calling to the men, “Keep one alive!”

“If they can’t hear you, we’ve got one here.” With his boot, Gareth toed the side of one of the men he’d downed.

Madog turned back and crouched beside the wounded man. A gash in his side bled heavily, but he was still conscious.

“Who sent you?” Madog said.

The man grinned, revealing blood-stained teeth, and answered in Welsh, but with a thick accent. “Why should I tell you?”

Madog glanced up at Gareth, who nodded. Just by speaking, the man had told them plenty. Now, they were looking not only for a rich, powerful lord, but one with the wherewithal to buy mercenaries from Ireland. Either that, or someone from Ireland wanted Anarawd dead and had put great effort into ensuring it.

“You should tell me who it was, because no matter how much he paid you, you won’t collect the money now. Why not bring him down with you?” Madog said. “No use dying here for nothing.”

The man grinned again and seemed about to speak, but then choked as blood from his lungs bubbled into his mouth. He coughed, tried to lift his head, and then fell back, his mouth slack.

“
Cachiad
,” Madog said. “We’ll have to find another.”

Gareth turned, prepared to search among the other fallen men for one who was still alive. Then Gwen, who still sat astride Braith, gave a cry. “Father!” She spurred Braith back the way they’d come.

Chapter Five

“
T
hanks be to God, you’re all right.” Gwen fell to her knees beside her father and Gwalchmai. The latter sat up, rubbing the side of his head.

Meilyr patted Gwalchmai all over. “You’re not hurt? Your chest, your fingers…” Meilyr clasped both of Gwalchmai’s hands in his.

“We’ve routed them.” Gwen put a hand to her chest, feeling her heart slow.

“I’m fine, Father.” Gwalchmai pulled away. “And so is Gwen.”

“I can see that.” Meilyr glanced at his daughter once before turning his attention back to Gwalchmai.

Gwen smiled inwardly at the usual pattern: her father ignored her and Gwalchmai remembered. It was always he who reminded their father that he had another child. When Gwen was ten and her mother died at Gwalchmai’s birth, she’d taken over Gwalchmai’s care—and her father’s too, truth be told—the best way she knew how, lavishing all the love she had on her little brother. Her father had been undone by grief and had never thanked her, never mentioned her mother or their mutual loss that whole first year. They’d barely spoken to each other beyond brief discussions of court politics, about which Gwen hadn’t cared in the slightest.

By the time she reached womanhood, Gwen and her father had come to a grudging accommodation, which had been instantly undone by Meilyr’s rejection of Gareth. Gwen had said things to her father then—things she couldn’t take back or amend because they were the truth—but which she later regretted. At the time, she paid for them and maybe that had made her father feel better and allowed him not to face his own neglect. That he was the adult and she the child had mattered little in the end.

Gwalchmai’s value, however, was undeniable. When Meilyr thought of him, he was thinking also of his own livelihood, which would come to depend more and more on Gwalchmai in the coming years. Meilyr was growing old, and while he taught as well as he sang, few households but those of high lords and kings could afford him. Gwalchmai’s voice, a voice which came along perhaps once in a generation, could support them all.

“Whose men were they?” Meilyr got to his feet and brushed grass and leaves from his cloak and vest.

“We don’t know,” Gwen said. “At least one of them was from Ireland. It’s possible they all were. Gareth will find out.”

Her eyes went automatically to Gareth, who was working side-by-side with Madog. They’d taken on the gruesome task of sorting through their own men: who was alive, who was going to die, and whom they could save. Gwen’s throat constricted at the horrors she’d seen today. It was all
too much
. Tears pricked her eyes again. She swallowed them back, gritting her teeth and telling herself that she would shed them later, when nobody was watching.

“Is that so?” Meilyr’s eyes turned thoughtful as he looked at her. “This move is not what I would expect from the Irish—or those Dublin Danes for that matter—not when attacking King Anarawd’s band and ours means inciting the wrath of King Owain Gwynedd.”

“They were over-confident,” Gwalchmai said. “Do you remember that time I sang in King Padern’s hall? I’d sung that particular song so many times I could do it in my sleep. But because of that, I didn’t prepare as you taught me and when I opened my mouth, no sound came out.”

Battling over-confidence was something Gwalchmai would have to deal with his whole life, but Gwen could appreciate his point. “They attacked us because they thought they could ensure that nobody lived to tell the tale,” she said. “They must have been paid a great deal to be willing to sacrifice their lives in Wales for such an ignoble cause.”

“No Welshman would have done this,” Meilyr said. “We are ignoble often, but not as willing to die so far from home. We’re far more practical.”

“How much time have you spent with Irishmen to know them so well?” Gareth came to stand beside Gwen. His hand hovered for a moment at the small of her back and then dropped to his side. The pounding of her heart, which had eased once she knew her family was safe, sped up again.

“We’ve sung along the west coast of Wales for many years. Gwalchmai is right, as far as it goes.” Gwen gestured to the carnage before them. “It would be interesting to know how much of this their master ordered, and how much they took upon themselves.”

“That’s the Irish for you,” Gareth said. “A lord might bring them here, but then not be able to control them.”

“And how do you know that?” Gwen said.

“I’ve spent time in the Emerald Isle,” Gareth said. “Hywel’s mother was Irish and we traveled there together to renew his family ties.”

“He’ll need them if he ever has to fight his younger brothers for the throne of Wales.” Meilyr surveyed the battle scene and what was left of their goods. “Them or his Danish cousins.”

The horse who’d drawn their cart had panicked, upending their possessions on the way to pulling the cart off the road. He’d come to rest between two trees but had been unable either to force his way between them or free himself from his traces. He stood now, head hanging, exhausted from his own fight.

Gwen noted her satchel, squashed but unopened beneath a box containing musical instruments. Her best dress, when it came time to wear it, should be undamaged. Gwalchmai noticed the box at the same time she did, and with a cry, ran towards the cart.

“Those two are much alike,” Gwen said, as she watched Meilyr and her brother set the box upright, open it, and begin to examine the contents. Gwalchmai held up an injured drum, showing his father the hole punched through the skin stretched across the frame. “And Hywel for a third. Always thinking of music.”

Gwen felt Gareth looking at her, his eyes questioning. She didn’t want to meet them. She kept seeing the rise and fall of his sword as he fought. But Gareth was thinking along entirely different lines. “Are you more to Prince Hywel than just his spy?”

“What?” Gwen turned to Gareth. “What do you mean?”

Gareth studied her. “Are the two of you lovers?”

“Of course not.”

The notion was ridiculous and Gareth should have known it if he’d thought about it for more than a few heartbeats. If anything, Hywel thought of her as a sister. Admittedly, Gwen had loved him as long as she’d known him, but understood almost as quickly what a lost cause that was, and how bad for her Hywel would be if she ever shared his bed. He was a Prince of Gwynedd and she a bard’s daughter. His father would never allow him to marry her and she wasn’t going to settle for anything less, not even from him.

For Hywel’s part, he’d never shown any interest in her, not in all the years that he’d wooed and loved the dozens of women he’d taken to his bed. By now, she was grateful for that, because it made them friends, or at worst, employer and employee, without the complications of romance.

“If you say so.” Gareth squeezed her hand once. “Come. We’ve more downed men than before—some of whom are still alive—and it’s a long way home to Aber.”

“Surely you don’t intend to attempt the journey today? After all this?” Gwen glanced upwards. Although most of the day had passed and the sun had fallen halfway down the sky, as it was early August, they had at least five more hours of daylight. That would give them just enough time to get the exhausted soldiers, the dead, and the wounded, to safety before dark.

Gareth shrugged. “Once we get the wounded to Caerhun, I must ride. Hywel and Owain Gwynedd need to hear what has transpired as soon as possible and I should be the one to tell it.”

“Then I will come with you,” Gwen said.

“Your pony can’t keep up with my horse, and Braith can’t carry two that far with any kind of speed,” he said.

“I’ll borrow my father’s horse,” Gwen said. “He fears King Owain more than he values his own dignity. He will loan it to me.” The horse in question cropped the grass beside the road, still with a dead body on his back, but seemingly unconcerned about either it or the activity around him.

Gareth caught Gwen’s chin and looked into her face. It had been a long time since they’d gazed at each other like this. She wasn’t sure she could read him anymore and for a moment didn’t know if he would agree—and what she would do about it if he didn’t. But then he nodded.

“You’ll tell me next that Hywel would want me to let you come.”

“He would. You know he would,” Gwen said.

Gareth narrowed his eyes at her, but Gwen shrugged him off and walked toward the fallen cart as if the matter was already decided. It would be a bad start to their renewed friendship if she had to force his hand, or follow him from Caerhun without him knowing. A quick look through the jumble of belongings on the ground produced the bag of medicines and bandages that her father had kicked to one side in his anxiety to determine the state of his instruments. She’d tied the top tightly when she packed it to protect what was inside and now crouched to open it. Then Gareth was beside her again.

“Do you know what these all are for?” He pawed through the collection of vials and herb boxes, picking up one and then another to study the labels. She almost laughed. It shouldn’t have surprised her that in the five years since she’d last seen him, he’d learned to read. It was just like him.

“As well as anyone who spent half her life in the company of an active younger brother, I suppose,” Gwen said. “My father worked very hard to control Gwalchmai, and perhaps that’s why when he was allowed out, he ran wild—and inevitably injured himself or his friends.” She paused. “And you?” She wished she could read Gareth as well as the letters on the vial, as he shot her yet another look she couldn’t interpret.

“I’ve spent far too much time in the company of wounded men. I know less about healing than I would like, but certainly enough to help you doctor these men until we can get them to someone more knowledgeable.”

“Then come,” Gwen said. “We’ve work to do.”

But this time, Gareth didn’t reply. He stood frozen to the spot, a few steps from the cart, and then walked quickly to a body that had fallen underneath two others. He shoved at them and Gwen trotted up to help.

“What is it?” she said.

“I pray—” Gareth stopped speaking and swallowed hard instead. He’d revealed the face of a man who was still alive, but hadn’t long to live.

“Bran!” Gareth knelt to cradle the man’s head. “Talk to me!”

Bran opened his eyes and brought a hand up to Gareth’s cheek, before dropping it. “Glad you’re alive.”

“What? Why? Why are you with these Irishmen?”

“Not Irish. Danes. We had to come back. Didn’t know you’d be here. I tried to warn you.” Bran moaned and would have closed his eyes again but Gareth shook him to keep him awake.

“
Why
did you have to come back?”